the blasts, the fallout, the sickness and the diar[y]hoea

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I hate Sunday dinner. Not in general, just our Sunday dinners. At least when Enola Gay cooks. More often then not I do the cooking. I enjoy it, I find it relaxing and I can ignore the rows from Littleboy and Trinity and the kids from the safety of the kitchen as I indulge in the chefs prerogative of a bottle glass of wine.


Sometimes Enola gets a bee in her bonnet and wants to cook. Which is fine. She’s a good cook. She is however, the most stressed cook. Ever!

You see, the thing is, Enola wants to cook but she also wants to be seen to cook by everyone so the process is marked by a commentary of what she has done and how long it all takes. From peeling potatoes to boiling water for gravy it’s all narrated for us. She gets so worked up with her listing she starts to miss things, forget to do things and then the huffs and sighs start.

The awkward thing is that she wants you to offer to help because it validates her hard work yet she sees it as an affront as if you are suggesting she can’t do it. She curses you for being anywhere near her and moans if she is left alone. It makes the whole day very wearing. Trying to walk the narrow line of her happiness so it doesn’t spiral into the depths of frosty silence and broken plates is exhausting.

The other downside of Enola cooking is that I have to spend time with the kids. Now don’t get me wrong, I love them, but they don’t mix.

Today Trinity spent all her time winding Littleboy up about his Chlamydia. It got to the point where little Cash would burst into tears when Littleboy got too close because Trinity had told her he had the lurgy. Admittedly it was funny. But LB is a bit touchy about his infection and did not take well to the teasing and stropped of with a trail of slamming doors in his wake. Which woke Andre from his nap adding his wails to the mix of a crying Cash, singing Shalimar, dramatic sighs and heavily placed pots and plans from the kitchen and the fury of Trinity who now had hold of aforementioned screaming one year old.

Home sweet home. At that point I really missed my wine.

Fortunately the roast chicken was served shortly after and order was restored while we all tucked in. It was a very nice meal and we all made approving murmurs and Enola basked in our approval. I looked forward to doing the washing up and my wine. It was all going swimmingly until LB piped up and said he wasn’t going to eat the chicken as he didn’t want to get bird flu. I tell you time stopped. Enola practically snapped her cutlery in half.

For a moment I had visions of beating LB around the head with my plate and force feeding him the bloody chicken. Of all the current events he had to be up to date with it was that one?

I blame myself for buying a newspaper but I’ve never seen him read one before so I thought it’d be safe. I think he probably read it because of the “bird” part thinking it was about girls.

Then Trinity said she he shouldn’t worry about it as he probably already had it along with all his other lurgys.

Cash started crying.

Andre woke up.

I hate Sunday dinner!

Will To Live Factor 65%


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